Night Terrors
by sxmmy
Summary: Tag to "Inside Man". Sam finds Dean having a nightmare. [ no slash. ]


**a/n **This is something I wrote a while ago, I decided to post it to prove I'm alive ;). Don't fret- I'm not abandoning "Never Forgive Never Forget" or "Back From the Future", the next installments to those are coming soon, but while I'm still without an actual working computer... it's been a little tough to be timely with updates. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this little one-shot in the meantime :)

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Sam can't sleep like he used to. That might be unsurprising in the eyes of most, given his past. He knows people would say the trauma he's endured is entirely to blame; that the crap he's been through has seared any willingness he may have had to allow his guard down. Admittedly, the analysis isn't entirely off base. He'd be lying if he said the hellish monsters threaded through his past don't come alive beneath closed lids after the lights dwindle to nothing. But then again, he's lived and coped and slept in the company of those horrors his entire life.

Now, it's different. There's a hint of something even deeper gnawing at him, fraying at every corner of his mind; an underlying cause for the persistent, self-inflicted insomnia that Sam eventually adopts as a part of him- and deny it as he may, it has everything to do with Dean.

The oldest evil documented in the history of the wold is devouring his brother from the inside out; and Sam can't sleep like he used to.

The horrors of the past are steadily replaced by the horrors of the present, increasing in number and intensity when the lights flicker out. It's almost become routine... first he wakes with a rush of knuckle-white adrenaline, coated in a thin layer of cold sweat. Next he waits for the remnants of the nightmares to be chased away by his awareness, and lastly he reminds himself over and over that his brother isn't gone; that Dean's soul isn't being sucked into another hellish spiral down demon-road, that those cries in the dark he hears in his dreams aren't actually being squeezed from Dean's lungs.

And usually, they aren't. Usually, that's enough to hold onto until morning light floods the rooms- but tonight... it's different.

Sam doesn't believe it initially, of course. He's heard Dean's raw, panicked voice echo through the empty halls of the bunker countless times. Sam just goes though the routine...counts off the steps in his head.

_One_.

He jerks awake, propped up from the waist in the midst of the bunched up sheets with ears trained to listen- heart racing and beating audibly in his chest.

_Two_.

He waits for the silence to reprimand him, for his mind to just _wake up,_ for reality to fall back into place... but, divvying from the normal route, the cries don't stop when he tries to blink away the sleep.

_They don't **stop**. _

Within the span of a second, he's certain they're not some figment of his imagination.

He knows they're real.

Sam ignores the angry protests his muscles seem to shout as he hauls himself out of bed, trained hands instinctively snatching up the gun he's learned to keep close as he builds momentum. Soft murmurs fill the hall from his bare feet hitting the stone cold floor, slightly moist skin sticking to the tiles as he runs for Dean's room; which he quickly decides is too far from his own.

Dean's next cry is Sam's _name_, and his blood freezes into a million maroon crystals.

_Hold on, Dean, just... _

Within two more seconds, Sam's tall form fills in the doorway of Dean's room- pistol lifted and aimed, ready to fire as liquid adrenaline pumps through his veins.

But of all the dark scenes he'd conjured in his head- Crowley after revenge for Dean manipulating him, some sort of rogue monster or vengeful spirit, something to do with the ravenous mark on his arm... he never considered this one.

There he is, Dean, face drained of color with his hands balled into fists clenched so tight Sam can see the whites of his knuckles in the dark-

-having a _nightmare_.

It takes a minute for Sam to comprehend that there are no life-threatening factors in play, that it's okay for him to lower his weapon, that it's actually safe to _breathe_.

And he doesn't mean to, but he finds himself lingering in the doorway; hands loosening their death grip on the cool, biting metal of the gun. Sam's brow furrows as he watches Dean struggle with the monsters in his head, heart suddenly feeling as if it weighed more than the world.

"No... _no_..."

Dean keeps muttering unintelligible things, tossing a centimeter to the right and then a fraction to the left, moaning- and Sam is just about to approach when the spasms suddenly stop... and Dean's breathing gradually levels. Almost like Sam's presence has somehow calmed him, and in turn, he feels his own heartbeat return to something that sounds close to normal.

Maybe it's stupid to even consider the far-fetched possibility that somehow Dean had... maybe... gained _strength_ from him, or some sort of peace, but it was obvious that whatever horrors he'd been fighting had melted away into the dark. Hopefully for good.

Silence blankets the room as seconds turn into minutes, and for a moment, Sam simply listens to the sounds of their breathing; entwining with the surrounding quiet, with each other's.

He finds himself drifting off into various memories he keeps tucked away, ones he seldom revisits- specifically ones from the spring after the Christmas when a hesitant Dean had told him the monsters under his bed were real. Back then, Sam would get terrible night terrors. He's always sort of had them... they evolved from that point on throughout his youth, increasing in subtlety.

But in that time, when the nightmares were fresh and frightening and _**vivid**_, when he had no impudent teenage pride to contend with and he would just _let_ Dean be there for him, Dean... well. He always would be. He had that strange, stupid way of always making Sam feel safe again; safer than his Dad had ever made him feel. Something inside always tells Sam that's wrong, to have felt that way with his brother and not his father, _never _his father- but he knows somehow that's how it'll always feel to him.

When one of the night terrors stuck, Dean would always know what to do. Whether it be switching on the light, camping out beside the bed until Sam fell asleep again, or even letting his little brother crash in his own room for the night- Dean never once, _never once, _left him alone.

So somehow it feels unfair, leaving Dean, right when the tables are turned.

Sam watches a few more lingering, tentative seconds, debating about what to do; not wanting to leave, but not sure of himself enough to do anything else, especially when Dean has clearly improved. His breathing is normal. He's _safe_.

Sam approaches anyway, slowly- careful not disturb his brother as he tucks the gun into the waistband of his pants. Sam's eyes fill with a weighted sadness, in spite of himself.

"I'm going to fix this," he vows in the lightest of whispers, deciding only on pulling the corners of the tousled bed-sheets over Dean's exposed body, which he must've thrown off while lashing out at invisible mind-conjured evils. His fingers rest a moment on Dean's shoulder when he's finished- so Sam can _feel _it every time Dean's chest expands with air, and every time it releases. The touch offers comfort in a way that's silly, _childish... _yet even so, Sam finds it difficult to relinquish.

But he does.

A moment later he carefully begins to lift his hand, is just about to _turn_ when he suddenly feels something warm wrap around his wrist, stopping him. Sam jumps initially, startled; as if he's been caught doing something he shouldn't, even _more _unnerved when he realizes that the warmth is **Dean**. Dean's hand, covering his own, not pushing him away- _keeping_ him there.

His grip isn't gentle; but it's heavy_, _and Sam realizes a beat later that it's heavy with _sleep_. He relaxes visibly when he knows for sure Dean isn't awake, his breathing remaining deep and slow.

Yeah... figuring out how to explain _this _one to Dean, that'd be fun.

Sam feels an ache somewhere deep in his chest.

Maybe the same weird need that had prompted Sam to stay was somehow alive and working in Dean, too, even in sleep.

* * *

Dean doesn't so much as stir when Sam carefully pries his hand away and exits the room sometime later.

He doesn't know how long he spent in his brother's room; but when he leaves, he doesn't return to his own.

The incident has cemented one thing in his mind; if he's going to change anything, _alter_ Dean's set course for destruction, he needs to up his game.

Sam locates his cellphone atop the table near the kitchen, wasting no time in dialing Cas' number. For a brief moment he stares at the lit numbers on the screen- wrestling with the last bit of conscience he had left.

_**Metatron **knows, Metatron has the answer. _

What Sam's planning... he knows Dean won't like it.

He finally banishes his hesitation and presses 'call'- remembering the _strain_ in his brother's voice when it was weighted with fear from the nightmare.

Sam tells himself it's okay.

_Dean doesn't have to know. _

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**a/n **Thanks for reading! Reviews are the pie to my Dean, the shoe to my Sam, and I'll love you forever. ;) xoxo


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